


A Private Holiday

by cyanideinsomnia



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Lucio (The Arcana) Is A Little Shit, M/M, Massage, Plague Lucio (The Arcana), Rated T for Trashmouth, Red Plague (The Arcana), lucio only gets 2 and a half wines because he weighs 100 pounds and cannot be trusted, stop being cute you're both terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21774247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanideinsomnia/pseuds/cyanideinsomnia
Summary: “You always did like it rough,” He mused, perhaps a bit more sensually than he should, smiling at the added flush of red dancing along the visible skin of the Count’s back.A frustrated whine from the sheets. “You can’t just say stuff like that and not let me fuck you.”
Relationships: Lucio/Valerius (The Arcana)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	A Private Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> concurrent with haunted holiday, referencing the cleanse from pity party
> 
> apparently 2 wines is all it takes to get "legally drunk", sorry lucio, maybe you shouldn't drink them like a gremlin

Though the summons specified some vague emergency, Valerius’ pace was kept to a proper brisk walk as he made his way through the Count’s wing, heading towards the proverbial lion’s den swift and graceful like its occupant decidedly was not.

He wasn’t sure _what_ lay in wait in there, only that it was apparently urgent.

The doors to the master bedroom were closed when he arrived, some kind of precaution to keep the Plague in or the rabble out. Lucio had always kept them in various states of open in years prior, likely because he couldn’t be bothered to check, only sealing himself within these past few months, and not by choice. 

Against his better judgment, the Consul gingerly stepped inside, letting the door close behind him again to abide by that unspoken rule. He’d brought both a glass and a bottle of wine, the latter as a potential sacrifice to the ailing Count. Pale gold met bloodshot silver at once, no apparent sign of anything out of the ordinary other than the relieved smile on pale features.

He looked just as awful as ever, a man on death’s door but no closer to opening it.

“ _There_ you are.” Lucio sighed, leaning back against the pillows. The wrinkles in the sheets indicated he’d been hunched forward in wait for a long while before. 

“What is this about?” Valerius huffed. “I thought you said there was an emergency. Where’s that doctor of yours-- Devonrack? Shouldn’t _he_ be attending to you?”

Something flashed in his eyes - a hint of a tantrum brewing inside him - before Lucio looked away, lips twisting into a petulant pout, folding both arms tightly against his chest.

“Noddy took him and the magician to the Summer Palace on holiday, _without me._ ”

A slow, owlish blink.

“... _that’s_ your emergency.”

Saying it out loud hammered home just how foolish he had been. Valerius groaned, setting his wine atop the nearby chest of drawers in order to scrub a hand down his face, perhaps more dramatic than was necessary outside of present company.

“It is an emergency!” Came the indignant squawk. “They _abandoned_ me! They didn’t even ask if I wanted to go, they just left! Maybe I deserve a holiday too, did they consider that?”

The Consul sucked in a breath, trying to even out his features in some semblance of composure. “With all due respect, _you’re harboring a deadly plague_. Travel is a bit impossible for you at the moment. I’m sure it wasn’t personal.”

He was absolutely sure it was personal.

“And while I would _love_ to provide a sympathetic ear for your woes, I’m afraid I have other things to take care of. Important Consulate business. You understand.” 

Abruptly reminded that the Red Plague was certainly clinging to every shred of fabric and dust mite in this room, Valerius stepped back towards the door, swift but much less graceful than his entrance.

The Count’s gaze caught him mid-backstep, hurt and disappointed. “What, getting drunk? You can do that here just as easily as in your Estate, and with better company.”

He shifted awkwardly on his heels next to the door, realizing he’d forgotten to collect his wine but reluctant to venture any further into the room to remedy that. There were other bottles waiting for him, surely he could afford to cut his losses.

“C’mon now, for old times’ sake. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

A pang of something between shame and guilt shot through him, unbidden. Of course Lucio would have noticed him avoiding the wing. He swiftly reminded himself it was only to protect himself from the Plague, nothing more, nothing less. Nevermind that it was hard to look at the emaciated creature in the bed, a shadow of his former self.

With a soft, resigned sigh, Valerius stepped away from the door, pushing his shawl up over his nose and mouth like some kind of desert bedouin before collecting wine and bottle, making his way towards the bed. 

Lucio scowled at the shawl, reaching over to smooth the sheets so he’d have somewhere comfortable to sit. “Jules said it wasn’t transmitted through the air, you’re fine.”

“It doesn’t hurt to take precautions, does it?” The Consul sniffed, but after a moment he begrudgingly pulled the dark fabric back down to his shoulders, stiffly perching on the side of the bed. “Now, what the hell did you want me for, exactly? If it’s simple companionship, there’s _dozens_ of eager to please servants scuttling about the grounds.”

“You’re the second-best looking in the Palace at the moment, excuse me if I have _standards_.”

Greedy golden fingers latched onto the wine bottle before he could refute either of those claims - namely the latter, he had no doubts about his appearance - tugging it out of his hand to allow the Count to squint at the label, flicking the cork free with his thumb once it apparently met his approval.

“I only brought one glass.” Valerius said, pointedly taking a sip from it. “Terribly sorry.”

“You are the worst guest,” Lucio huffed, defying said guest's expectations of his behavior by _not_ taking a swig out of his prize, instead plunking it down on the nightstand next to him.

With some difficulty he leaned down over the bed, fumbling at the latch for a moment before opening up the nightstand and rummaging inside. He came back up with a similarly elegant glass as the one in Valerius’ hand, and before the door closed he could barely make out the glimmering edges of numerous other alcoholic accoutrements.

“Does the darling Countess know about your stash? I thought you were supposed to be going on a cleanse.” A sly grin curved the corners of his lips, growing wider at the withering look in response.

“Don't you start.” The Count grunted, carefully lining up glass and bottle with visibly trembling hands. “Maybe Noddy’ll take mercy on me n’ call it off when she gets back.”

Without thinking Valerius snatched the bottle from him before he'd begun tipping it, pouring wine into his glass himself. Sallow skin flushed a deep, embarrassed red, but thankfully Lucio didn't snap at him for it - perhaps assuaged by a glass almost overfull. 

At least if it spilled, the sheets were already red. He didn't want to think about what other sorts of similar colored stains could be hidden there.

Lucio's wine was almost gone in one gulp, expectantly holding the glass out to him to be refilled. “I called you here ‘cause I thought maybe we could have a holiday of our own. An evening of rest and relaxation, without the annoying carriage ride or unwanted riffraff.”

“You want me to pamper you.” 

Both glasses were now almost overfull, though he took his own a bit slower, feeling he might need it.

“Well, yeah, of course-- but I can pamper you, too. A little give and take, you know?”

His voice dropped lower at the last line, lips twisting into a devious smirk, a glimpse of the man he used to be. He finished off the second glass and slowly clambered out from under the sheets while Valerius was distracted with his third, shifting closer to him on the bed.

The too warm touch of his flesh hand against his cheek was the Consul’s only warning before Lucio closed the gap between them, swooping in to press a kiss to his lips. His own hand swiftly came up as a barrier before he made contact, less than gently pushing the Count’s face back with a stern look.

“You're in no shape for _that_ kind of give and take and you know it,” His tone may have come out colder than he meant it, causing Lucio to flinch away from him as if struck.

He hated how the other man's shoulders sagged beneath his gaze, wordlessly burying his face in his wine without another attempt, so easily defeated. He hated how small and vulnerable he looked, a sickly beaten dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“I suppose I could be amenable to the initial proposal, however.” Valerius sighed, concealing the wipe of his hand in a gentle stroke along one sunken shoulder. “A private holiday sounds good.”

Lucio’s expression immediately brightened, then soured again, the beginning of a wine-drunk flush already apparent in his pale skin. “... y’know, I don’t remember what you’re supposed to _do_ at the Summer Palace. Maybe we can throw some salts in the bath ‘n pretend it’s the sea.”

“How barbaric.”

“What’s your idea, then?” The Count huffed, swaying a bit before slowly shifting closer to him once more, starting to crawl into his lap like an oversized cat. “I’m all-- _fuck_.”

His knee caught on the sheets, sending him tumbling down much less elegantly onto his destination, the half-filled glass of wine slipping out of his golden hand and clattering uselessly to the floor next to the bed. They both watched the growing crimson pool for a moment, before a burst of laughter escaped Valerius’ throat.

“It’s not funny. I wanted that.” Lucio whined, shifting slightly to fix him with an expectant pout, as if he was supposed to collect the spilled wine and put it back for him, tickling him further.

He simply shook his head and rested a hand on the small of his back, feeling the hard edges of his spine through his shirt. “And I was beginning to consider taking it away from you, since you’re about fifty pounds lighter than the last time we drank together. Moderation is not a dirty word, you know.”

A low hiss in response, back arching beneath his touch. “ _You’re_ a dirty word.” 

“Only the finest profanity to touch your lips, my lord,” Valerius chuckled, letting his fingers lazily trail along the rest of his captive’s back, up to his shoulders, watching goosebumps raise along his exposed skin, though he kept his hand to the fabric of his shirt.

Lucio shuddered and relaxed further against him with a quiet groan, burying his face in his flesh arm. “S’a good start. Massage good. You’re very smart.”

“I’m only doing this because you agreed to reciprocate, don’t forget that,” He chided with a slight smile, leaning over to set his glass on the nightstand in order to have both hands free. “If you fall asleep on me, the deal is off.”

The Count gave a little noncommittal sort of noise, vaguely sounding like ‘m’not gonna sleep’, which is exactly what someone who would soon be falling asleep would say. 

After a moment’s consideration, he decided to assist him with that wakefulness, hands sliding down to grip his sides, fingers falling between protruding ribs as he gently pulled him off his lap and laid him face down along the bed. Despite the startled whine, Lucio didn’t fight this arrangement, allowing himself to be moved, far too easily for Valerius’ liking.

He tried to ignore that as he climbed up to straddle his ass, leaning over him to run his hands along his back more deliberately, his touch remaining light while he judged his current tolerance for pain. Once again the skinny back arched up into his hands, a relieved shudder rolling through his frame, as though this was the first time in a long time anyone had attempted to apply _any_ pressure back here.

Had anyone even _touched_ him in the past few months, in any capacity other than tests or assisting in mundane tasks? Did they cut him off cold for fear of the Plague? 

That was arguably a greater death sentence than his current affliction.

Valerius dug the heels of his hands between his shoulder blades, aiming for one of many knots he could feel were twisted between visible bones, and paused as a muffled whimper drifted up from the bed, Lucio’s fingers digging into the sheets.

“Softer?”

“...h-harder.”

“You always did like it rough,” He mused, perhaps a bit more sensually than he should, smiling at the added flush of red dancing along the visible skin of the Count’s back.

A frustrated whine from the sheets. “You can’t just _say_ stuff like that and _not_ let me fuck you.”

Valerius paused again, leaning forward on an old, stupid impulse and then stopping himself, instead kissing his own fingertips and pressing them against the back of Lucio’s neck. It had the same effect as the real gesture, perhaps because he was so starved for it.

“You can have me when you’re cured, and no sooner,” He asserted, leaning back to continue massaging him. “I too have standards.”

“.. s’that why you've been avoiding me?”

It was his turn to flinch as if struck, accidentally gouging into his skin much harder than he meant to, the slim body tensing and then relaxing again between his thighs with another helpless mewl. He could see the edge of purple bruising in the indents of his fingers, partially obscured by his shirt, rising much too easily.

Now he was stuck questioning his motives. The simple call for companionship was as equally as plausible as bringing him here for answers. Of course he would come running for an ‘emergency’, regardless of personal misgivings. He wondered how many other attempts to gain his attention he’d missed while he’d buried himself in endless paperwork.

Valerius tugged the collar of the shirt up higher to hide the bruises as if Lucio would be able to see them, and his eyes fell to the angry red bed sores criss crossing the freshly exposed skin of his lower back. Against his better judgment - he still didn't know if touching his skin directly would give him the plague either - he rested one hand against them, both covering them out of his sight and perhaps giving some kind of relief with the relative chill of his own skin.

“I hate seeing you like this,” He said, finally. If he wanted confession, fine, he would have it. “Like.. a weak, limping animal that hasn't realized it's already dead, just waiting for someone to put it out of its misery. I just-- I can't bear it.”

Lucio's fingers curled into the sheets, but for the moment he said nothing, perhaps waiting to see just how much tighter the Consul would pull his own noose. 

“I couldn't-- I almost hoped the next time I stepped into this wing, you were no longer in it.”

The warmth of nostalgia was long gone, leaving a sick feeling in his gut. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have answered the summons. He should've held tighter to the idea of the healthy stallion of a Count in this wing, instead of letting himself see the lame horse he really was. It didn't help that the man he remembered stood proudly in the painting directly ahead of him, almost taunting him.

Valerius numbly withdrew his hands and slid off Lucio's back onto the bed, reaching for his wine and waiting for the coming storm. Expecting, almost hoping he would be tossed out of the room in a fit of rage, because he wasn’t sure what the alternative would be and that frightened him.

The Count slowly stirred from his place on the bed, just as slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position, not looking at his guest or the painting. “Don't you think I hate seeing it too? I’m the one that had to watch it happen. I didn't get like this overnight.”

In that moment Valerius realized all the mirrors in this room were turned away from the bed, so that the painting would be the only hint of what he looked like.

“At first I thought, y'know, it's just a little flu, I'll get over it. I've had worse.” Lucio shifted on the bed towards him, expression at least one of frustration rather than self pity. “Then in the middle of a party, I threw up and there was blood. There's just so much fucking blood. I've probably lost several people worth of blood by now. It's gross and I hate it.”

He crawled across the sheets as he spoke, brusquely squeezing himself behind Valerius’ back with the same old confidence of a man that just did what he wanted without waiting for permission. It wasn't until his braid was tugged out of the way and trembling fingers were gripping his shoulders that he realized what he meant to do.

“You don't have to--" His voice trailed off into a low groan as those fingers dug into his neck with practiced ease and care, wondering how he forgot how good he was at this.

“Give and take, I said,” Lucio huffed, though he could hear the wry smile in his voice. “Also this way you don't have to see me anymore, so you can stop _whining_ about it.”

The crown prince of whining complaining about it tickled him again, genuine stupid laughter escaping him before he could stop it. To his credit, the Count did not decide to silence that laughter while he had his neck already in hand, instead digging his thumbs that much harder into his skin, especially bearing down with the metal one. 

Perhaps they would have matching bruises later.

He felt a press of soft, too-hot lips against the back of his neck, approximately where the golden thumb had dug in, as though Lucio had heard that thought. 

The thought of infection didn’t immediately cross his mind this time, drifting further away as more searing kisses were peppered along his neck. He simply closed his eyes and leaned back into mouth and hands, allowing the latter to knead long-held tension from his shoulders and his back, distantly wondering when was the last time he’d actually had a decent massage.

“What are you made of, _rocks_?” Lucio hissed into his neck.

“Running a city-state is stressful, as I’m sure you know.” One gold eye peeked open. “If you don’t want to do it, I can go. Perhaps it isn’t too late to catch a carriage to the Summer Palace.”

“If you step foot on that carriage, I _will_ tear both of your legs off and feed them to you.”

“I missed you, too.”


End file.
